


Alien: Solitude

by EvilFuzzyDoom



Category: Aliens (1986)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFuzzyDoom/pseuds/EvilFuzzyDoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Technicians aboard a secure Weyland-Yutani communications and relay station get to observe things from afar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alien: Solitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diadelphous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadelphous/gifts).



LV-388 is a grey and black mottled Plutino, a lifeless and barren icy brickette orbiting at 45.7362 Astronomical Units from a pale white star. It is of little significance. It is far from anything or anywhere of interest. It has taken forty-seven months for the Weyland-Yutani hauler USCSS _Willard_ to get here. It has taken another three weeks to maneuver its fifty-million tonne payload - a communications monitoring and relay station - into place. In the bleak, still, lonely silence of space, white puffs mark where reaction control jets correct the tugboat's attitude. They stop, and there is no motion except the rapid blinking of its hazard lights; off, on; like the beating of a biomechanical heart. The moment passes and the _Willard's_ powerful engines engage. Blue-white fire streams out into space for a fifteen second retro burn that marks the final point on the payload's journey.

Aboard the _Willard_ , the five-person crew cheers. They pop champagne, they high-five. They celebrate. For forty-eight hours, they relax and observe. They calculate. They compensate.

The payload awakens. External lights flash into brilliance. Antennae and solar panels extend like the wings of a colossal butterfly, dwarfing the _Willard_. The crew don space suits and check over the payload's surfaces. They check for damage or breaches. They find nothing. The captain addresses the others, and she tells them to wake up their passengers.

High atop the titanic cluster of radar dishes and antennae, a bell chimes pleasantly. It begs for attention, but nobody is yet awake to give it. Slowly, gradually, hypersleep chambers open with a hiss of air and a tinkle of falling ice. Their occupants stir as a clipped, tinny voice - the Willard's captain - sounds out over an intercom.

"Anderson, Bell. Are you two awake yet? We've got good news, you sleeping beauties. We've arrived at your new home. Orbits are stable and all externals are nominal. Company schedule says from here the Willard is to stay in place for another thirty-two hours while you check systems, and then you’re on your own until resupply. Commence systems check, advise in four hours. Out.”

Time passes.

 

A bank of monitors casts the reflection of pale blue text across the darkened room. Two technicians, one in blue and one in beige, sit and watch the activity of the relay station’s arrays. The man in the blue jumpsuit is shorter, rounder. His badge reads “Anderson.” He has his feet up on the desk, close to but not touching his input console and microphone. He is sipping occasionally from a teacup, which he does not replace on its saucer. The man in the beige jumpsuit is taller, thinner. His badge reads “Bell.” He leans forward, intent, elbows placed on the desk and his mouth resting against his clasped hands. The two men do not talk much. They never talk much. They are paying attention to the feeds.

Bell squints, his attention drawn to a particular signal. He taps a code into his console, the keys rhythmically clacking. He continues to squint at the small monitor closest to him, then pats Anderson’s foot to get his attention, without looking away. “Look at this,” he says, “a repeating pattern. Bizarre waveform. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Anderson sits up properly, taps input into his own console, and studies the signal for himself. He responds that he hasn’t, “See if you can triangulate the source, Bell. That doesn’t match any Company signals, and I’d be very surprised if it were free haulers trying to get around licensing, with that outline. Are there any echoes off the other signals?”

Bell has already begun to run a trace, commanding the station’s significant processing power to begin scanning the other signals coming through its systems for anything resembling his intriguing find. Within an hour, the computer has returned a positive match on regular report traffic coming from Sevastopol Station. Within another hour, Anderson has done a complementary search of the Weyland-Yutani corporation records for similar signals, and found none.

This bizarre repeating signal is coming from Zeta two Reculi, and it is not human. The technicians do not translate it. Anderson and Bell instead follow company protocol and relay the message in an encrypted packet directly to headquarters on Earth. Twenty-five days later, the response comes back with an earmark for Thedus: Special Order 937. They send the signal on.

Time passes.

 

A bank of monitors casts the reflection of pale blue text across the darkened room. Anderson paces the floor, his booted foot falls making the only sound. Bell leans forward, intent, elbows placed on the desk and his mouth resting against his clasped hands. Both men stare attentively at the monitors, bathed in lines of blue light. Anderson pauses in his pacing. “Look!” he says, pointing, “That signal from Zeta two Reculi is still going. Astounding. I would have thought the Company would have sent someone to investigate it by now.”

Bell taps a code into his console, the keys rhythmically clacking. He continues to squint at the small monitor closest to him as its readout changes to show the signal again. “Fascinating,” he says, “But I have to say I’m not surprised, Anderson. Standing Company instructions aside, I’m of the opinion that the signal represents a warning, not an invitation.”

“Standing instructions aside?” Anderson frowns and cocks his head at Bell. “Company employees are directed to report and investig- _report and investigate_ all potential extraterrestrial activity by corporate bulletin seven-three-nine-five-” Bell turns to Anderson and interrupts, calmly explaining that, yes, he’s seen the bulletin. Anderson stiffly straightens and says with a sniff, “Well. Perhaps S.O. nine-three-seven is a direct countermand then.”

Bell continues to observe Anderson for a long moment. “Perhaps it is.”

Time passes.

 

A bank of monitors casts the reflection of pale blue text across the darkened room. A technician in beige sits and watches the activity of the relay station’s arrays. He leans forward, intent, tapping a code into his console, the keys rhythmically clacking. He types a message for corporate headquarters, pertaining to the wellbeing of his co-worker. The access panel behind him hisses open as he keys in the send command. Anderson drops a satchel of tools next to his seat with a resounding clang of metal on metal and gently places a teacup on the desk before sitting. He puts his feet up on the desk, close to but not touching his input console and microphone.

Anderson sips from the cup. “I presume that’s the monthly sitrep you just sent? A bit early, isn’t it?”  
  
Bell doesn’t look at Anderson to reply, instead looking again at his monitor. “Yes,” he says, simply.

Anderson sips from the cup. “Did you mention the maintenance order on the port antenna?”

Bell continues to look at his monitor. “Yes,” he says, simply.

Anderson sips from the cup. There is no movement except for the unending streams of text.

Anderson sips from the cup. “Good.” He says.

Time passes.

 

A bank of darkened monitors show the reflection of a bright, white halogen lamp illuminating the room. A technician in brown, reclining on a wheeled backrest and wearing a welding mask, makes some final adjustments to the monitors’ circuitry. Anderson paces, reading a tablet computer clasped in gently shivering hands. Bell leans forward, intent, elbows placed on the desk and his mouth resting against his clasped hands. He has placed a tablet computer in front of his regular monitor, and is tracking the station’s feeds during the maintenance.

The technician in brown thumps something and the bank of monitors flickers to life, casting the reflection of pale green text across the darkened room. Bell stirs, places his tablet in a drawer, and returns to his accustomed position, watching the feed on his own monitor. Anderson puts his down on the desk, next to a black rubber scuff, and leans down under the desk to get the third technician’s attention. “Good job!” he says loudly, slapping the desk as he does so. “I haven’t seen a replacement that quick in years. Pity you couldn’t get the colour right.”

The technician in brown rolls herself out from underneath the desk and lifts her welding mask. She is short and young, and her jumpsuit is baggy and poorly fitted. Her badge reads “Carter“. She is listening to music through headphones that cover only one ear. She frowns at Anderson, a little perplexed. “I would have thought you’d be sick of blue by now, you two here in the dark for so long.”

“Oh, no.” Bell gives a small wave of dismissal. “We’re big fans of routine.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile, but he doesn’t pull his eyes away from his relit monitor. He is paying attention to the feeds.

“I don’t know,” muses the technician in blue, as he picks up his tea cup. “My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation.” Anderson sips from the cup. The other technicians stare at him in silence, wide-eyed.

When he notices the others staring, he asks, “Sherlock Holmes? No? Never mind, then.”

Anderson sips from the cup, turns, and leaves. The access panel hisses closed behind him. Bell reaches over to his place at the desk and retrieves the other technician’s tablet computer. He taps a button and it shows the last thing Anderson was reading: a product recall for the Hyperdyne Systems 120-A/2. He raises his eyebrows at the technician in brown, who shrugs.

Time passes.

 

A bank of monitors casts the reflection of pale green text across the darkened room. Two technicians, one in beige and one in brown, sit and watch the activity of the relay station’s arrays. The man in the beige jumpsuit is tall and thin. His badge reads “Bell.” He leans forward, intent, elbows placed on the desk and his mouth resting against his clasped hands. The woman in the brown jumpsuit is short and young, and her jumpsuit is baggy and poorly fitted. Her badge reads “Carter“. She is sitting bent over with her chin on the desk, looking up at the monitors and listening to music through headphones that cover only one ear. Occasionally, she presses and holds a button, then speaks nonsense words into her microphone, reading from a tablet computer. The two do not talk much. They never talk much. They are paying attention to the feeds.

Carter tips her head without breaking her gaze from the monitors. “Hey Bell,” she says, “that signal just stopped. The one you and Anderson were following, from Reculi?”

Bell takes his eyes from the monitor to look dispassionately at Carter, then taps a code into his console, the keys rhythmically clacking. He grunts to himself, “So it has. Intriguing. I wonder what happened.”

“I dunno, but there’s also an order here from corporate to go drop a shake and bake on it.”

“Oh? Call it up, would you please?” Carter complies, and Bell studies the order for thirty-seven families and twelve technicians to set down on one of Calpamos’ moons to begin the atmospheric processing required to terraform the rocky body. “Interesting,” he muses to himself. “They must have cleared up whatever was sending that warning signal. What I could decipher sounded dangerous. Well, pass it on.”

Carter complies.

A pristine, empty teacup sits in the corner of the room.

Time passes.

 

A bank of monitors casts the reflection of pale green text across the darkened room. Carter dances to music played through headphones that cover only one ear. Her other ear is plugged with a wireless receiver. Her jumpsuit is baggy and poorly fitted, and the hood bounces in time with her music. Her gaze is fixed on the feeds of the monitors.

As the track comes to a close, she removes the headphones and rapidly touchtypes a long code into her console without looking away from the feed. Larger green letters overlay the feed on the central monitor for a moment. She presses and holds a button, then speaks nonsense words into her microphone, reading from the monitor. She releases the button with a click. Then she taps another code into the console, and addresses Bell.

Bell is outside, replacing a solar panel that has been damaged by space debris. The old panel floats nearby, moving at a relative speed of millimetres per second while the surface of the Plutino below whizzes by, a million times as fast. It is punctured by a roughly-hexagonal hole, surrounded by a chalky white smear. Bell is using a metre-long plumber’s wrench to tighten a bolt.

Carter’s voice rolls around his helmet, competing with the sound of his breathing: “Bell, it’s another signal for Zeta two Reculi. Thought you might be interested?”

“Of course,” he replies, after a grunt of exertion. “I’m nothing if not curious. What is it this time?”  
  
“Nothing special, just a map reference and a suggestion to go look at it. Signed by some Company guy.”

Bell sighs, a little disappointed. “That’s what I thought. Same as the last one. Nothing special. Same thing every quarter for those colonists.”

“Yeah,” Carter agrees, “It’s the worst soap opera ever.” She puts on a deep, faux masculine voice. “Same time, same place - Hadley’s Hope; where nothing ever happens!” Then she chuckles.

Bell smiles. “Alright, I’m coming in. Prep the fusion reactor for thermal disposal. This one’s not going to be fixable. There’s a hole as big as my fist through it. Make sure to put it on the report for resupply.”

Carter complies.

Time passes.

 

A bank of monitors casts the reflection of pale green text across the darkened room. Two technicians, one in beige and one in brown, sit and watch the activity of the relay station’s arrays. The man in the beige jumpsuit leans forward, intent, elbows placed on the desk and his mouth resting against his clasped hands. The woman in the brown jumpsuit is sitting bent over with her chin on the desk, looking up at the monitors and listening to music through headphones that cover only one ear.

One of the feeds winks out. Carter sits up straight, and slowly presses a few buttons on her console. Bell blinks, and taps his monitor. He begins tapping a foot. He frowns at his monitor.

“Carter,” says Bell, reaching in his drawer for a wireless earpiece, “This is a potential protocol four-nine-three, loss of contact. Company notification and USCM response required. I’m going to the system core to confirm it’s not a fault on our end. You’re familiar with procedure?”

She nods solemnly, “Affirmative: Objective one; restore contact. All other considerations secondary. Feed focus to be redirected, full twenty-four hour monitoring. Company priority level whiskey-yankee-zero-zero-two.”

Bell nods gently as he fits the earpiece. “A simple ‘yes’ would have done, Carter.”

In response, Carter curtsies with a demure smile. Bell shakes his head and exits the darkened room, the access panel hissing at his passage. He crosses a gantry to a ladder which disappears into darkness below. He mounts the ladder, and begins the long climb down.

Carter stands alone in the darkened room, staring at the almost-blank monitors. A single, pale green phrase, is reflected in her eyes:

**“/PING >LV426WYCHH01>_”**

Below, Bell fusses with a screwdriver and a series of data banks. He runs diagnostics. He makes visual checks. He confirms that there is no fault. All on-board systems are nominal. The darkened room lies idle. Bell eventually returns, the access panel hissing at his passage. The station sits dormant. A stillness falls over the technician in beige and the technician in brown, as they wait.

The only movement in the room, in the entire station, is the blinking of the text cursor on the monitors.

There is no change, no response. Audio and data transmissions do not resume. After the prescribed deadline for contact reestablishment has passed, Bell signals to Carter. She rapidly touchtypes the report into her console. She presses and holds a button, then speaks nonsense words into her microphone, reading from a tablet computer.

In orbit around Earth, a Corporation junior executive receives the report. Communications from LV-426, the moon known as Acheron, are confirmed lost. The next day, he knocks on a door.

Time passes.

 

45.7362 Astronomical Units from a pale white star of little significance, far from anything or anywhere of interest, a sickly light caresses the pockmarked hull and antennae of a Weyland-Yutani corporation communications monitoring and relay station. It is followed by a small cloud of dust and debris. Among the cloud is a cracked white teacup.

Time passes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Diadelphous, I didn't end up looking at the exact characters you were after, but one of your prompts just blossomed into this before I even sat in front of my keyboard! I just had to write it. I hope you like it anyway :)


End file.
